


BODY 4 BODY

by threepwillow



Category: Hello From the Magic Tavern (Podcast), The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Bangin' Buds, Crossover Pairings, Gen, Hachi Machi, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Sex with Sentient Animals, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threepwillow/pseuds/threepwillow
Summary: **The Bangin' Buds crossover event the world has been waiting for!**Eager to put Glamour Springs as far behind you, both mentally and physically, as possible, you hop ship and leave the country, ending up in the magical land of Foon, where everything is much weirder and much, much hornier than you ever could have imagined. But you're lonely, and whatever horny weirdo wrote this Smeg's List ad is lonely, too. You're in for a series of surprises.





	BODY 4 BODY

**Author's Note:**

> It seemed literally physically impossible to me that, in any reality in which Faerun and Foon co-existed, Chunt and Taako would not have _totally hooked up_ pre-both-canons. Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. The tags are not a goof. Justin and Adal, if you're reading this, I'm so sorry. But also not as sorry as I should be. Bingbong!

Here's surprise number one: You answer a Craig's List ad.

No, excuse me, you answer a _Smeg's List_ ad, because apparently after crossing the ocean, landing on this new continent, trying to start Fresh™, everyone speaks the same language and there's still elves and dwarves and talking animals and wizards and shit but the _ad listings_ have a different name. Actually, you know what, sure. They can't all be Craig, or Craig can't exist outside of time in all places at once like some kind of cosmic machine, or something. Smeg makes just as much sense as anything. So you're browsing the ads on Smeg's List, tacked up on a broad tree just outside of the town you figured you'd stop in for the night, or the week if you can pick up work. The job listings are all tragically below your paygrade (chimney sweeping, stable shoveling, _waiting tables_ , god that last one is so pathetic you shudder a little) or, tragically, (a wizard looking for magical aid on some quest or another; the acorn you picked up idly about a mile ago turning not to the cat's-eye glass marble you intended but to a chocolate-covered peanut, then a blob of wax, and then back to the acorn in your hand), damnit, above it. And frustrated, bored, more than a little sorry for yourself, you find your eyes shifting to the personal ads instead.

 

> **Fun-loving, shape-shifting guy in the mood for a FWB - M 4 ANY - Corporeal-formed, sentient entities ONLY (Hogsface)**
> 
> *reply to this post: send BIRD MESSENGER to CHUNT
> 
> Been feeling a little stuck lately, a little down in the dump-os, and could really use someone fun and chill for casual companionship! :) A one, a two, or even a three night stand, and go from there? My place is clean, no roommates, would love to host you after an upbeat night of drinks and merriment. Only as serious as you want it to be, I'm easy. Hit me up, bb!
> 
> *Location: Hogsface - McShingleshane Forest district  
>  *it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests  
>  *it's NOT ok to utilize information from this poster in arcane rituals

 

You find yourself laughing, a little, the smile coming to your face almost unbidden. And like, you expected to laugh - it's the only personal ad on the posting, and this little town looks pretty dismal, and you'd gone into it planning to be judgy and amused. But whoever this guy is, he genuinely seems like, entertaining and fun, and, moreover, like he's definitely not taking this posting too seriously. Like as much as you'd planned to laugh at it, he'd also planned to laugh at it himself. And you can't deny that that undercurrent of mildly pitiful self-deprecation - feeling down and stuck, _don't worry I'm easy_ \- is striking a chord with how you've been feeling, too. And you're lonely.

God, you're lonely. Which is weird, because you're used to being _alone_ , right, you've been alone for as long as yo̷̺͌̚u̶̩̗̒ ̵̖͋̌c̶̣̀a̷̛̗͎n̴̪̄ ̴̧̓͒r̷̨̝͐e̸̐̊ͅm̵̨̞̈͒ę̵́͝m̷̦̣̂͝b̶͇͝ê̷̮̞̚ȑ̵̼̔. You've been alone for as long as you can remember. But for some reason, it's still not something that ever comes naturally to you, the struggle of it wrapped tense up your spine, and even having just one companion kind of in your zone is way, way more chill. And with your last companion _firmly_ four months in your rearview, maybe it's not too crazy of you to be looking for some sort of friend, or fling. Although it is maybe crazy of you to be looking in - you check the ad again - a town called _Hog's Face_.

(And - and okay, you are getting a little bit judgy after all, but come _on_ \- with a guy whose handle is "Chunt." Possibly the worst name you've ever had to deal with, and this is coming from a guy named Taako.)

But nobody here has any idea who you are. And for once, you're leaning into that as a good thing, because what it means is, you can be a little crazy.

The listing says to send a "bird messenger," and you're only scratching your metaphorical head over that for a couple of seconds before you realize there are six or eight decent-sized birds perched comfortably in the lowest boughs of this Smeg's List tree, each adorned on one leg with a little coil of parchment. Making eye contact with a bird is always a smidge unsettling, but you manage it, and that one flits down and alights instead on the edge of the pack you've been carrying. You take the parchment, and a charcoal pencil from inside the pack, and write back.

> _**To CHUNT** _  
>  _Saw your ad on the List. The name's Taako. Just a single sun-elf dude who's new in town and looking for the cool places to chill. Pick a spot and maybe you could show me around?_

You add a winky face just because you can, then sign your name again and roll the parchment back up. Uncomfortably, you look the bird in the eyes again as you affix the note: "Take this to... Chunt," you say, the mouthfeel of the name just still _quite_ unpleasant, despite your best efforts. The bird bites you _hard_ on the ear and then takes off with purpose.

"Holy shit!" you yell after it, but it's gone, and all the exclamation does is tweak out the other birds, which ruffle softly and squawk less-than-softly in the branches above you. You huff, tug your hat down further onto your head, and, after checking to make sure the twitching tip of your ear isn't _bleeding profusely_ , unshoulder your pack and lean against the tree, to maybe get a spot of rest.

In the fuckin...corvid commotion™, you forgot to second-guess yourself, to be overwhelmed by the finality of sending a message you can't take back. So that's where the second surprise comes in:

You get a response almost immediately.

Like, as immediately as a bird message can come back, anyway. You're strongly considering catching some Zs against the side of this tree hat-over-your-face-style when there's another ominous fluttering, first of bird wings and then, more delicately, of a slip of paper drifting down into your lap. With more excitement than you'd anticipated having, you stretch it open. 

> _Taako! Thanks so much for the message! I've lived in Hogsface all my life and would love to show you around. There's a great local tavern called the Vermilion Minotaur not too far from the edge of the forest (where I'm assuming you're at right now), if you want to meet in a few hours for some bevvies and snackies? And ~more~?_

He's drawn a little face with waggly eyebrows, and you'd absolutely hate it if it weren't so wholly self-aware. You laugh that same laugh again, charmed despite yourself, and abandon your catnap to start making your way into town.

\----

The tavern, being y'know, _a tavern_ , is pretty easy to find. It's close, like the mysterious Chunt has said, and there's no mistaking the big red sign over the door, though you wouldn't quite call that vermilion. More of a carnelian, honestly. You figure you're about an hour early, or close to anyway, but you head inside, keen to get the lay of the land before this whole thing actually kicks off.

It's early in the day yet for proper drinking, so the place is relatively empty, but there's still a few occupied tables: A booth in the corner houses a schlumpy brass dragonborn poring over a messy slew of papers and a couple of multifaceted game dice; at one end of a long table on the opposite wall, a young human woman is tending to a very young human child whom you're pretty sure should deffo not be in a bar, but whatever. There's a small stage platform off to the right, and while nothing looks like it's formally going on up there, there is a short, strange, multi-limbed creature sitting on a stool, playing soft music on several instruments at once, which kind of helps give the place an ambiance. No idea what that thing is, but you're into it. All in all you've been to much shittier taverns before.

You take a seat kind of left-of-center at the bar - which, with how quiet the whole place is, is currently unmanned, though you can hear some tinkering in the kitchen. After about ten minutes (salt shaker into pinecone, then, eureka! a pepper shaker, but then back into the pinecone, and shit, now it won't even turn back into the salt) a man emerges from the back - half-elf, a little older-looking than you, and actually incredibly easy on the eyes but so blatantly heterosexual that that train stops before it even leaves the station. He's got the handles of a bunch of empty mead steins hooked over all his fingers, clearly transporting them up from the kitchens and restocking them behind the bar, but then he turns to you with a small pleasant customer-service smile.

"Hello there," he says, "welcome to the Vermilion Minotaur. Don't think I've seen you around here before!"

"No," you allow, "I'm new. Just sailed in from Faerûn actually." This guy's good - you can practically feel the waves of "trustworthy bartender to whom you should feel comfortable telling all your personal truths" rolling off him. You honestly don't hate it.

"A Northerner! Yes, I can hear it in your accent, sure," says the barkeep. "Well, thanks for stopping in. I'm Otok, owner and proprietor. If you're looking for a place to stay while you're in town, we've got a number of very economical rooms available upstairs."

You slide your hat off, resting it on the bar stool to your left, making yourself comfortable. That's certainly an option. But for now: "Are you still doing happy hour?"

"Sure, sure," Otok says with a wink. "I just tapped a keg of Scrr bilbemel, it's supposed to be extra blue. I could probably slide you a pint on the house, to properly welcome you to Hogsface and all."

"I'm gonna be honest with you, O, I only understood about half the words you just said, but if there's alcohol in it, I'm there." You wink back at him, and he chuckles, pouring you out a flagon of whatever it is he's talking about - listen, you're a food guy, not a mead guy. It does have a noticeable indigo tint to it, and it tastes like - yep, frothy-ass honey and alcohol, but like it's pretending to have blueberries in it too. It's fine, and for free, it's extra fine. You swig down some more. Liquid courage, and all that.

Otok raises his eyebrow. "Are you pre-gaming for anything in particular, there, sir?"

Damn, he _is_ good. You set the flagon - which you've nearly half-emptied already, so that's fair - back down, and swivel sideways on your stool, leaning a little onto the bar with your back and your arm. "Yeah, you know, you got me... I'm actually kind of here on a, a, a Craig's List--sorry, a Smeg's List date. You know how it goes."

"I'm a widower," he says, utterly deadpan.

"Shit, dude, okay--"

"No, no, it's fine," he assures you. "I think - I think I may actually know the person you're meeting, and if it's who I think it is, I'm sure you're in for a nice night. We've known each other for a long time and he's a great guy."

"Well, that's potentially very reassuring," you say. You do still swig down the rest of the mead, and swiftly order another one.

Business in the Minotaur starts to pick up pretty steadily over the next fifteen minutes or so. It seems like Otok has a lot of regulars, and he tends to them amiably, with whatever that customer service version of bedside manner is. A couple of bards arrive to set up an act on the stage - the thing with all the arms quiets down - and Otok bustles over to assist them, lighting some additional gas lanterns and tugging a couple empty kegs out of the way. You're having fun just people-watching. Foon has way more fey-folk mixed in with the regular populace than you're used to and it's fascinating. It's an excellent distraction from the impending potentially-bad-life-choice you have made, low risk as that may be.

A blind date in a strange town you just arrived to. That's gotta be some kind of deathwish, right?

It's like Otok Knows™ - he finishes up with the bards, swings back over to slide some enormous glasses of white wine to a pair of gnomes at the other end of the bar, and then continues down to you, smiling suspiciously. "Don't look now, but I think your Smeg's List date is here, at booth six. Sorry, the one to the right of the stage, under that portrait of my father." He gestures with his head and his pinky finger, even as the rest of his hands are mixing up a drink, a different mead from yours, clear glass, with some fresh raspberries muddled into the bottom third of it. "Maybe you should take this over to him and say hello."

He winks again, and passes you both glasses - yours, refilled, and _Chunt's_ \- just as there's a _crash!_ from back in the kitchen, and Otok pinches his nose, whispers the word "blemish" for some reason, and sighs, turning on his heel to head back and resolve whatever the hell that was. You squint over at the booth, but it's obscured by the sudden eruption of a thick plume of smoke from the pipe of a dude sitting at a small, round table in the space between, and you can only make out a curved shape that reads distinctly as "yeah that's the back of some guy's head." You swallow, nervously, just once. You're in for a penny in for a pound at this point. You perch your hat artfully back on your head, scoop up the two drinks, and cross over to the booth.

"This seat taken?" you drawl, setting the drinks down, as you slide onto the bench seat across from -

From--

From the biggest fucking frog you have ever seen.

The shape you perceived through that beardy guy's pipe-smoke was not, in fact, the round back of a humanoid head. It was the hunched shape of the back of an _enormous_ , glistening, lemon-lime-colored frog, seated on the edge of the table, a couple vivid stripes of a darker, leafier green running up from the edges of its nose and between its deep-staring blood-orange eyes. You do a bit of a double-take, making sure you're processing what you're seeing correctly, but even after mentally shaking yourself the frog is still there. It's seriously the size of a beach ball or something, it's messing with your head. You freeze, your ass barely touching the bench beneath you, hovering awkwardly, making eye contact awkwardly with this massive, unblinking amphibian.

You say, "Sorry, I must've - " in perfect unison with the frog saying "Taako?"

Well, he pronounces it "Tay-ko," and so you blurt out "It's 'Taa-ko,' the rounded A," on autopilot, before your brain is fully, excuse the expression, leapfrogging correctly down the logical path of _the frog knows my name_ to _the frog is Chunt?_ to _THIS FROG IS MY DATE??_ and oh god, oh g o d, by then the frog is - smiling?

"Taah-ko, okay, okay, oh wow, hi, yeah, I'm Chunt!"

"You're Chunt," you echo dumbly.

"It's so nice to meet you!" the frog chirps. "You are - wow, you look incredible, thank you so much for meeting me here. Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"You...are Chunt," you say again, totally stuck on it, surprise number fuckin three. That's Chunt. Chunt is a frog. Your totes-down-for-casual-sex blind date is supposedly this giant chartreuse frog.

"Mmm, yes?" he says. He shuffles a little on the table, his dense body making a dull thud on the wood, and he reaches out a little webby hand to the handle of his mead glass, lapping his tongue awkwardly into the rim.

"I'm sorry, am I being punked right now?"

"Wh...what?"

"Like are you _shitting_ me right now," you ask, semi-seriously this time, your own mead totally forgotten. "You're Chunt? This is a joke, right?"

"I - no, it's, I'm sorry, are you okay? Is everything all right?" He makes a face - the frog makes a face of - concern. Somehow, the decidedly non-human face puts on a human expression. It's a little unsettling, but it kind of gets to you.

"I don't understand," you say. "You're not - " You don't know how to finish the sentence. You take a drink, finally, overcome.

Now the frog looks a little hurt. "I'm a shapeshifter," he says. "It said that right in the ad...."

It...did say that, you recall, though there hadn't exactly been a lot of details on the matter. "So this is the hot bod you trot out to meet people for the first time?"

"This is the body I'm in right now," he says, a bit defensively. "It's not that cut-and-dry, I don't just change at will, I'm sorry we can't all be super-hot elves all the time."

You're not too flustered to take that for the compliment it's clearly meant to be, but you're still super confused. "Wait, so then - uh, pardon my, my curiosity, my frankness, but what exactly is required for you to transform? No offense, but it never even crossed my mind that I'd be wining and dining with a talking frog."

Chunt huffs, and takes another tongue-heavy slurp of his drink. "Well, ordinarily I don't, uh, get into this subject until a little later on in the night, but I actually - I take the form of whoever or whatever I...have sex with." He shrugs. A frog shrugs, somehow. "Sooo...."

You _can't_. "So you're a frog because you had sex with a frog?"

"Yes?"

"What were you before??"

"I was a pelican, if you must know."

How. How does a pelican have sex with a frog. You both seriously want to know and seriously, _seriously_ do _not_ want to know. In your almost-a-year as a wizard of the school of transmutation, in all your textbook study and practical, on-the-job discoveries, you have never heard of anything as buckwild as this. A sexual shapeshifter. Habitual, serial cross-species _doin' it_ that triggers some kind of bio-magical change. A guy who managed to get a frog to hook up with a pelican, and a pelican to hook up with god knows what he was before that, and who fully intended to now go from frog to decidedly non-animal elf.

You look at the frog, and the flirtatious kindness still visible behind his eyes even after how, let's face it, rude you have been to him in the past few minutes, and it occurs to you with a sudden horny terror in the pit of your stomach the kind of _game_ this guy must have to pull all this shit off.

"L-ook," you finally say, leaning into the L of it hard after a long, slow exhale. "I - you seem like a great guy, and I really appreciate your patience and like the kindness you've extended me here and whatnot, meeting up with me here, everything you've got on offer." Your finger draws nervous circles on the table in the condensation that's dripped from the side of your drink. "But where I'm from - we don't have this kind of thing in Faerûn, I think, or at least not that I've ever heard of."

"There's no shapeshifters in Faerûn?"

"I dunno, my dude, maybe druids, but I think people just kind of cast True Polymorph if they're into this sort of thing."

"Huh."

"I just don't know if I'm ready... _emotionally_...to be going on a date with a frog."

"Y'know you keep saying frog but it's actually, I'm actually a toad?"

"Oh - my bad, really?"

"Yep," says Chunt, and then, far too fuckin' pleased with himself: "A horny toad." He waggles his eyebrows, _which he doesn't even have_ , you don't know how he's doing that. You stop within mere millimeters of audibly groaning. "Aww yeah, baby!" There's something in his vocal inflection of the word "baby" that makes you hear it in your head as _bb_ instead, exactly as he'd written it in the Smeg's List ad, _hit me up, bb!_. You don't know how he's doing that either.

You can't help it. You laugh, and he laughs too, and suddenly you're laughing together, and drinking together, and it's not a date - because you are _super_ not ready to be going on a date with a frog - but whatever huge miasma of awkward was hovering over this table before, it seems to be clearing up, at least a little.

(Now there's just a huge miasma of pipe smoke from that dude at the table next to you.)

"It's cool," Chunt finally says. "Most people are down, but every so often you run into snags like this, you know? Not every body is for everybody." He smiles, satisfied with the pithiness of that.

"Yeah, y'know, thanks."

"This frog bod can do some craaazy good tongue stuff, though."

"Okay, gross, I'm out."

But you laugh again, and you don't leave, not just yet, anyway. You sit with Chunt for a few minutes, watching as the three clumsy bards start to kick off their set with some song about dragons and babies, and eventually it gets awkward again, but a different kind of awkward, the garden-variety flavor of two people who've reached a point where they don't have much to say to each other anymore.

"If - if you're sticking around some, I guess we'll see each other around Hogsface?" Chunt finally says.

"Yeah," you agree, "y'know, we probably will."

And you do.

\----

About three weeks pass, relatively uneventfully, and believe it or not you're still in Hogsface. You take Otok up on his offer of a room at the Minotaur. You scoop a couple of one-off odd jobs around town for spare cash, cantrip-level arcane pyrotechnics for a traveling stage show that came through (no one recognized you), valet wagon-parking for a big sporting event of some kind took place at a stadium on the outskirts of town. Between that and selling off a lot of your pricier, more deluxe cookware back up north, you've been able to afford a plain but perfectly reasonable quality of life here in what is.... Let's face it, Hogsface is a very affordable and mildly shitty little forest village. But the anonymity and total lack of responsibility is seductive, at least for now. For the first time in a long, long time, you mostly just chill.

You've got plans to chill all day, in fact. "Midsummer" is sort of cresting into "mid-late summer," and it's getting more and more blistering hot outside, but your sun-elf genetics are _loving_ it and you aim to take advantage: About a mile out of town, there's a broad, flower-speckled clearing with a wide cool pond in it, surrounded by big flat rocks that are perfect for sunning oneself on. In true Hogsface style, the water in the pond itself is, as far as you can tell, utterly filthy, but you don't need to get in. The vibes are enough. You're wearing your best summer hat and your shortest shorts and some little ankle-booties and you look, frankly, amazing, and you are ready for your legs to soak up some rays like you're goddamn photosynthesizing. It's summer, baby, you're gonna enjoy it while it lasts.

(Especially because people keep saying something about "preparing for Vwishtash" once the summer is over, which you have been afraid to ask about but have kind of gathered is gonna suck, and maybe have a lot of fire? You'll cross that bridge when you come to it.)

As you arrive at the pond, it's immediately apparent that a lot of other people got the same great idea as you on this blinding-bright summer day; there are little pockets and clusters of people all along the pond's perimeter, and even some, horrifyingly, in it, splashing around and climbing the craggy rocks that jut up out of its center only to cannonball back in. Disgusting. But you find a secluded spot easily enough, a rock right at the pond's northern tip that's smooth and flat and just a little mossy, perfect for your day's planned activity of Absolutely Nothing. You recline onto your back and stretch your legs all the way out, letting out a huge sigh. Not the beach, really, but it'll do.

You're laid out like this for at least a couple hours, making sure to rotate every once in a while so that you bake evenly, when you suddenly get the distinct and unsettling feeling that you're being - observed.

Casually as hell, you crane your neck up just a little, giving your surroundings a once-over. There have certainly been other people within shouting distance of you pretty much all day, but you've all been happy to politely ignore each other, and right now - although you can admit the blinding sun is doing a bit of a number on your passive perception - nothing looks new or out of the ordinary. Nobody's there. But no sooner have you returned to your casual sprawl - on your stomach at this point, head pillowed in your folded arms and hat down over your face to keep the delicate complexion of your moneymaker intact - than the sensation creeps back over you again, lingering twitchily between your shoulders. You breathe deep, give it a beat, then two beats, and then sit bolt upright, hoping for the element of surprise.

"I know Magic Missile!" you yell, pointing your finger around like it's already locked and loaded. It, and your eyes, quickly come to rest on the interloper: At the edge of your rock, protruding up out of the pond in a way that it definitely shouldn't be because it is _just a nasty little pond_ , is a fucking shark. Like, a for real _shark_ , massive teeth and intense, wide-set eyes and triangle fins and _did you mention the massive teeth_ and holy _shit_ does your heart do some non-regulation palpitations. You find yourself simultaneously comforted and even more terrified; you can deffo get up and run away from a shark, but if you hadn't noticed it when you did, well, you were probably close enough to the edge of the water that it could have gotten at least one chomp in on you with a good enough lunge. You take just like a quick second to try to get your breathing under control, scrambling back a few feet from the water's edge.

In that quick second, the shark bursts out laughing.

"Whoa, okay, you got me!"

Your Magic Missile finger droops, in tandem with your eyebrows raising all the way to the brim of your hat. " _Chunt_?"

It _is_ Chunt. You don't believe it. Weirdly enough, considering you're living at the inn-slash-tavern where he's a regular customer, you haven't seen him since that fateful, froggy night you first met; but now that you're looking at him you recognize him instantly. The voice is a dead giveaway, natch - somehow still that glib, peppy mid-tenor, despite it coming out of a giant terrifying shark's head - but also, there's something more than that, something intrinsically _Chunt_ about it all that's transcended the shapes he's taken. You've seen it both times now: it's a devil-may-care quickness behind his eyes, an open and easy posture to his body and his smile. What they call a _charisma,_ in the business, and you figure if you were to put a number on it Chunt's would be astronomical. Like a plus-four, at least.

You're gonna blame _that_ if someone asks you why you seem to have thought enough about Chunt in the interim between that fateful, froggy night three weeks ago and now to have identified it so precisely. It's not _your_ fault. He's just - weirdly easy to think about.

"What the hell are you doing creeping around like that, you big perv?" you ask, with far less conviction than you intended, somehow. "I really could've shot you, you know."

"I had no idea you were so magical," Chunt trills. He's grinning, which is downright unsettling with all the teeth. "I'll have to be more careful in the future."

You give him the eyebrow a little over the rim of your sunglasses. "And what future is that, exactly?"

He sighs. "Okay, look, I didn't mean for this to be so weird, I just - got nervous," he says. "I've been trying to approach you for almost an hour and just didn't really know how. But I really wanted to talk to you again because I feel like, we maybe didn't get off on the right foot the first time around."

"Well, my dude, you don't have feet at all right now, so I'm not sure how you're gonna pull it off this time either."

"Oh!" says Chunt. "Actually...."

As you watch, shark-Chunt pops two flipper-fins up over the side of the rock, getting leverage. Weirdly, they don't one hundred percent look like shark fins, after all - it's almost like they're built in a vaguely humanoid configuration, with some shapely shoulders and a biology you are definitely not equipped to understand. He hoists himself up, the rest of his body following out of the water, and the body that follows is a shark-skinned human-shaped chest sloping into an impressive set of abs and some short stocky athlete's legs and holy _shit_ , that sure is a _penis_ hanging out there in the middle. Just a big old naked dong. Whooo boy. Wow.

"Mmm, my eyes are up here!" he lilts. And listen, yes, you are but one lonely gay elf and could anyone _blame_ you for having trouble averting your gaze for a second or two, but he sounds entirely too smug and it's infuriating.

"Yeah, you know, I'd say keep it in your pants but it seems like that's kind of the whole root of the problem here in the first place." You take one last quick peek - yep, confirmed, he is just reclining back on his fin-hands with his legs splayed casually open and the dick just _out_. With the shock value wearing off, you and your uncanny valley are left trying to parse the reality of all _that_ in the downstairs with the huge, anything-but-humanoid freaky fish half of things. It's going about as poorly as you expected. Chunt is a freaky half-fish. Who _is_ this guy?

"I slept with a reverse mermaid, I'm a reverse merman now!" he says.

"Of course you did," you say, more to yourself really. "Honestly, gotta say, makes more sense than a shark being in this cesspool of a pond. What are you doing in here anyway, besides lurking? Is it not like for real toxic?"

Chunt fidgets a little, and - thank _god_ \- repositions his body, tucking his legs up toward his chest and leaning on his knees with his pseudo-elbows. You're still getting like, half a butt at this angle, but he's at least managed to tastefully obscure the blunt of it--er, the brunt of it. Woof. "Well, to tell you the truth," he says, "the um, the girl I hooked up with, it was kind of a rough night, and I think both of us regret it a little bit?" He shrugs with one flipper/shoulder. "And since she lives in The Lake, y'know, with her mer-squad, it seemed weird to still stay over there? So I'm kickin' it over here for now. I can only be out of the water for an hour or two at a time in this shape, that's why you probably haven't seen me much at the tavern."

Your brow furrows a little; you hadn't considered that consequence of the sexual shape-shifting, that he might get stuck for some time with a body that only serves as a relic of a bad hook-up. He could be hating this even more than you are. You mentally cut him a little slack. "Yeah, I had wondered about that, a little."

"How's it going down there, anyway?"

"Did you know Blemish has started like, vomiting up cats, right out of his mouth? Like, whole live cats, for real."

"Boy oh boyy," he says, laughing a little but clearly just as skeeved as you are. "Just in time for Vwishtash."

"Yeah, I still don't super know what that means."

"It's okay, the tavern is fireproof!"

You don't even know what to say to that one. "So okay, am I understanding this right - you slept with a woman, reverse mermaid? For the shift? But you've still got a definitely uh." You swallow, a little. "Definitely masculine body, traditionally, with your whole. Situation." The brunt of it. The Chunt of it. Hachi _machi._

"Oh! Yeah, um, y'know, she was largely shark-headed up top, so I feel like in most ways I still resemble her? Like, coloration, skin type, musculature, build, et-cet? But even when I shift shape, it's still like, the Chunt version of whatever body I get." He winks. "And Chunt is aallll man, bb!"

You roll the _shit_ out of your eyes. Then you remember that he can't really see them behind your sunglasses, so you take your sunglasses off and roll them again. It's that serious.

"Oh, it's like that?" he says.

"You're a real piece of work, Jabberjaw."

"I am going to choose to take that as a compliment."

"You know, I think maybe it is."

"Well then I am going to give you a compliment, which is, no bullshit, I think you look very nice today."

And just like that, Chunt's voice is delicate and smooth with the most sincerity that you think you've heard in it yet, quite the departure from your witty repartee thusfar, from how you've been remembering him in your head. It catches you off-guard, just a little; you blame the charisma. You turn and look at him, really _look_ at him, making eye contact with where he has so obviously been looking at you, and his eyes have gone just a little soft, just a little less Chunty. His body shifts slightly closer to yours, his legs sliding down to dangle parallel to your own over the edge of the rock. He starts to lean in, almost gravitationally, toward you. He rests a flippery triangle of a hand on your thigh.

Yeah, your whole roll comes to a screeching halt.

" _Whoa_ , whoa, nope, absolutely not."

"....It's the shark thing, isn't it."

"It is _most definitely the shark thing, my dude._ "

Chunt deflates. "Dammit, I thought we were really onto something here!"

"Onto _what_? You gotta know there's no way, right?" There's no _way._ A guy with a shark head, a giant shark mouth that could easily open up around the entirety of your own head and chomp it off in one bite, just tried to go in for a fucking kiss. Who even _is this guy_. What even is _Foon,_ if you're being honest. Sex shapeshifters. Reverse mermaids. What's next?

"I dunno, you just - you're gorgeous, and I gotta be honest, a little intimidating, but I think - I think I really like you. I've thought about you a lot since that night, at the Minotaur. You are - weirdly easy to think about." Oh. _Huh._ "And it just seemed like you were really, you know, hip to my jive."

"Look, your fucking _jive_ could swallow me whole right now." You stand, putting a little distance between the two of you. "That is not a vore thing, that is literally like, me being in genuine fear for my life if we tried to do whatever it was we were just about to try to do."

"We?"

"You. _You_ were about to try to do." God damnit.

"Mm-hmmm," Chunt sing-songs.

You say nothing, even as you're getting ready to turn and leave, brushing nonexistent dust from the seat of your shorts. The silence betrays almost as much as trying to defend yourself probably would, unfortunately. He's staring at you again. His dick is still out. Yeah it's at _least_ a plus-four.

"You're a _fish_ ," you say finally, pathetically.

"And you're in denial," Chunt counters. "This body was - a mistake, I feel like, maybe."

"Yeah, God's mistake," you mutter.

"But I know where to find you," he presses on, "and I swear - at some point, I'm gonna find the shape that makes this work for you, Taako." He grins a massive, terrifying, pure-Chunt grin on his reverse merman face. "I don't care if I have to fuck all of Hogsface to make that happen."

"...Play that last one back for yourself there, homie."

"Okay, you know, that's fair."

His idea of a serious, dramatic exit is to turn and cannonball right back into the pond. You take your leave, too, needing to get out of here, but you're not even halfway back to the tavern before you find yourself grinning from ear to ear, unable to scrub your brain completely Chunt-free. Ashamed, a little, to admit you're not even trying. It's so _easy_.

Who is this guy?

Who, even, are _you_?

\----

He's a raven next time you see him.

You're a few miles out of town, at a place called Dwarf-Ditch Downs, attending what has been a _heavily_ advertised "Jerky Jockey Horse Race." There's betting afoot everywhere, so you partake, just a little - you've been helping Otok Barleyfoot out with some odd jobs the past couple weeks, and as payment he's waived your room 'n' board, so you've got some extra gold to spare. You select a sleek little dude named _Wyld Stallyon_ because you respect the Ys-as-Is flair he's got going on and because his odds are good, but not _too_ good, promising a pretty payout if he brings it home. Plus, he's coded as red in all the like, totes-offish bookie stuff, and you're just d̶̝̅r̶͎̻̆a̵͈͑w̸͈̏͝n̶͕͛͗ ̸͙͑t̴̲̽o̶̱̍͜ ̷̜̣͗̑r̸̙͔̈́e̴͖͖͋d̶̲͔̑̇ f̵̖̮̟̺̬̅̾̋̿̉̓͝o̴̱̭͕͓͕͑͋̽͂ͅř̸̢̫̱̹̀̅͛ ̴̫͎̄͗̉͊͊s̵̼̙̭̘̔̄̎̈́̆͘͠ȯ̶̧̙̠̯̗̖͊̉͊͠ͅm̶̬͈̀̓̌͊̽ẽ̵̲̻̱̪͕͎̮̋ ̷͇̝͔̎̑̔̃͘͘͠r̸̰̭̙̲͖͌͜è̴̬͆̑̿̿̇͊à̶̧̘̘̞s̷̡͇͎̯̝͇̈́o̸̧̤̻̤̤͠n̶̡͖̗̺̯̫̏̈́̊̚. You're drawn to the red for some reason. So you're handed three crisp, bright red parchment tickets as proof of your betting, and then you wander down and find a decent place to sit, just a little ways down from the starting line.

You're gazing out over the spotty but still sizeable crowd when you spot him; sitting with his friend you see around sometimes, that shouty beardy dude in the blue old-school robes, a bird glistening black in the summer sun, directly across from you on the opposite side of the track. Gotta be him, right? Even at this distance. After a second, they see you too, and the wizardy dude waves, and bird-Chunt hops and flaps excitedly. You wave back, grinning, with your hand that's still holding your red betting stubs. Chunt perks up, and stabs his beak into the dude's drooping sleeve, and pulls out five dirty-beige slips, brandishing them toward you. You check in the souvenir guidebook you bought - hey, you're perfectly entitled to outlandish mementos - and find the horse that corresponds to beige: _Chrysanthe-Cum'n'Get It._ Woof, that's a few messy horse-name layers too deep. Also, if you remember correctly, that horse's odds are pretty terrible. You chuckle, and raise an eyebrow at Chunt, hoping he can see it at this distance.

The horses and their jockeys, mostly slim-build elves and gnomes, start filing into place along the starting line, slotting neatly into their colored boxes. A thick dwarf woman ascends an important-looking podium at the center, raises an absolutely massive whistle to her mouth, and blows. The racers take off.

They run about half a lap and then the jockeys all dismount, crawl underneath their horses, and start jerking them off.

You should have _known_. You should have just fucking assumed.

So apparently the winner of the race is whoever gets their horse off first. Whinnies of pleasure start wafting up from the animals - now all on Chunt's side of the track, fucking of course he chose his seat accordingly - and while some of the racehorses have wandered off, turned off and disinterested, a handful of pairs still seem to be...really going at it. Oh shit, including Wyld Stallyon! The gnome who'd been riding him, whom your program identifies as October O'Face, is going to _town_ under there, working feverishly to outpace the nearest competition, the lime-green duo of Martin Horcese and Wangin' Will Wallaby (you're not even sure which is the horse and which is the jockey of those two). Meanwhile, two more competitors have dropped out, one of them by literally dropping right on top of the elf underneath. Damn, kid, you could actually win this thing.

"C'mon Big Red!" you find yourself yelling, jumping to your feet. He's gotta be close, right? His face is screwed up in horsey ecstasy, his right hind leg kicking rhythmically, ever-so-slightly, barely missing the jockey. You stare intently at the point of contact, willing them onward - god, there's gotta be some magic you can do to cheat and _help_ him, can you make October's hands super-soft or do some sort of illusion of another, super-sexy horse or -

"HELL YEAH!" Wyldy seizes up, neighing loudly to the skies, and October O'Face shoots out from underneath, holding his white-streaked hands aloft. The dwarf woman at the podium blows her whistle again. _Hell_ yeah. That's _money,_ baby. You wave your red tickets around above your head.

You catch a glimpse of Chunt and his friend, glumly picking at their beige slips. Man, that dude didn't even come _close_ \- his jockey is still going at it, but from the looks of it it's gonna be a distant fourth behind lime-green and purple. You shrug over at them, unapologetic. Them's the breaks. It feels great to win something for once.

Then again - the hot mess that is Foon just suckered you into getting mad sportsfan enthusiastic over man-on-horse _jizz racing_ , and Chunt is a svelte palomino the next time you see him, so like, who _really_ won, after all.

A couple weeks later, he's changed again, into a - skunk? No way; yeah, you look closer, stealing glances across the crowded tavern, and it's too much teeth and not enough tail. A badger, you guess. You think about going up to him, catching up, but you give him his space, because he is sitting at a table on the Minotaur's back deck with another, nearly identical badger, whom you can only assume is the one he's been y'know. They're laughing, or chittering, or something, doing some silly thing where they put raspberries on the end of each of their long claws like thimbles. It's - pretty adorable. You're staring, and you're definitely not paying attention to a damn thing Otok is saying to you, something about trying to get a menu together for an upcoming party he's hosting.

Well, until he says something totally bonkers about bananas in a salad. "Absolutely not, my dude," you tell him. "There's not enough arugula in the world to balance out whatever slimy sugar-mess that would turn into, are you kidding? Tangerine's gonna be your safest bet."

"Wow, I - hadn't thought of that," says Otok. "Taako, do you cook?"

"No," you insist immediately, going back to staring at the badgers again. Chunt is nibbling the raspberries off his date's claws now. _Adorable._ They look so pleased with themselves, and with each other, and you feel like, happy for them and envious at the same time. (Envappy? Hanvious? You spend a good fifteen minutes like that, eyes glazed over on a pair of cuddly badgers, trying graspingly to portmanteau.) You can't help but feel your own loneliness flare back up again, just a little.

It's not even a week later, though, when you spot badger-Chunt again, alone this time and looking _miserable_. Drinking the drinking that a sad, pathetic dude drinks. The other badger nowhere to be found. Not hard to put the pieces together on that one. He eventually gets rowdy enough to hop up on the bar, but because he's only about two feet tall he's not doing much damage and Otok mostly ignores it. He's whooping and hollering like he's having a grand old drunk time, but he's not fooling anyone; you have no trouble picking out the strains of that flip, self-mocking sadness creeping through his goofy upbeat voice, and - god, _way_ too empathetically - you remember this side of Chunt, and that it really is always lurking right there under the surface, huh. You watch his antics for a few moments from your corner booth before slipping back upstairs to your room.

You'll give him his space tonight, too, but obviously for different reasons. Like the fact that he's a drunk mess. And the fact that he's clearly going through some stuff and maybe needs to work it out on his own. And the fact that you are still not quite prepared to engage in pity-sex with something that's only about two feet tall. Oh, god. You harrumph yourself defiantly right into bed.

He's always around. He's a bull, with horns that barely clear the door to the Vermilion Minotaur, in an irony that's lost on literally no one. (And a dick even bigger than reverse-merman-Chunt, whooo _boyzy_.) He's a peacock, which if you're being perfectly honest delights you to _no_ end; he fans his tail for you, and lets you keep a feather, which you tuck into the band of your hat, _natch_. He's a deer, or a hedgehog, or a large, glittering beetle. One night, at his new Chunt's Night show, he's a _skeleton_.

"So I bet you guys are wondering," he joke-pitches to the small but mostly-captivated audience. "Just how _does_ a skeleton have sex?"

"You _bone_ , obviously!" you yell from the back edge of the bar, because like hell you're letting him get _that_ one for free. There's some polite laughter across the room, but some people look uncomfortable about your heckling. Too fucking bad, tee-bee-aych.

"Sir, if you continue to interrupt my show in this manner, I am going to have to ask you to leave," Chunt says, completely deadpan. "Excuse me, bartender?" He catches Otok's attention, then gestures from him to you and back, but Otok just laughs at him, and even with no lips or whatever you read the shit-eating grin on Chunt's face loud and clear. You blow a raspberry back up at him, grinning too, but you settle down and _graciously_ let him finish. He winks at you _without eyes or eyelids or any of that shit, somehow_ , and you laugh even harder. This guy!

"Anyway," he resumes, "the correct answer is actually that we used our boners." The audience digs that, and laughs more genuinely this time, and he continues onward, with a lot of pelvis-centric gestures that are honestly pretty crass but that still can't shake your posi vibes. He's really owning himself and his only-bonely body up on that stage, and your eyes are just - drawn to him. And like, five percent maybe is you missing performing, but the rest of it is all Chunt, _bb_. It's hot.

(And listen, you really _don't_ know how skeletons have sex, but you are - frighteningly interested in finding out? It's doing _significantly_ more for you than the spooky schlongy shark-man thing was, anyway. You decide to file that one away for later rather than examining it too closely. For now, you're happy just to watch.)

The summer crawls fully into the sticky, nasty, oppressive-heat home stretch, and sleeping with your window open is basically a necessity at this point. You're just about to drift off one night when you begin to hear some soft noises out back of the Minotaur, and then they're growing louder and more chaotic, music and shouting and other sounds you definitely, for sure cannot fall asleep to. Damnit, Barleyfoot, clear the hooligans out, it's _way_ past last call. You trudge over and pop your head out the window, ready to yell at these fools to keep it down, and there's -

"Taako!"

Chunt. Chunt, the satyr.

Whoa.

Your words all catch in your throat because it hits you kind of sideways: This is the first time you've seen Chunt in a body that has a largely human face and torso zone. And you're not sure how much of this is the dude he slept with to get this way, and how much is just the innate Chuntiness, but he is _handsome._ And fascinating. He has short-cropped, curly hair, pretty dark but with a faint hint of red to it, and skin a few shades lighter than yours. A bit of beard-scruff that matches the dusting of hair on his bare chest. Same on the backs of his arms. And the goaty legs, sure, but you're not focusing on that, you're entranced by his sturdy, masculine jaw, the thickness of his torso - some soft, round give around the stomach but with obvious sturdy muscle behind it, and it is very masculine and you are very, _very_ gay. And that quickness in the eyes, that easiness to his posture, that intrinsic Chunt fire. You take a slow, deep breath and whisper "fuck me," hopefully quietly enough that he doesn't hear it.

"What are you doing out there?" you call out instead. "Some of us are trying to get our fuckin beauty rest, you know."

"Mmm, you seem like you're good on that front," he says with a wink. "It's Summer Ffest! I always like to try to be a satyr for Summer Ffest, it fits with the whole revelry vibe."

"Yeah, that tracks," you say. "But also what is Summer Fest and how are you saying that word with two Fs with your mouth."

"Yeah, it might be hard for you to get with a Faerûn accent." That _doesn't_ track, not at all, but you let him have it. Out beyond him, in the bright moonlight, the other people who are participating in whatever this is are still gallivanting along the forest's edge, waving for him to come back to the party. More satyrs, more elves, some fey folk and some forest animals. Tiny, whizzing things that if you squint just look like flying pigs, maybe? A lot of them are adorned with brilliantly-colored flowers and are nursing frankly enormous steins of ale or mead or something. It looks hedonistic as fuck and it's probably a lot of fun. You are so, so exhausted and would like to be asleep.

"Come down!" Chunt shouts. "We're gonna go into the forest - that's the other F, it stands for Forest - and become one with the essence of the natural world. The moonlight shines onto these special tree stumps at the exact right angle and you can like, take a bath in it. It's good for all of us who come from forest origins. Wood elves and woodland animals and stuff. It's rejuvenating. Plus then we get drunk and there's an orgy at the end!"

There is a soft, hopeful look on his wily, handsome face that says he would _really_ like for you to be part of the orgy. And you are looking deep into his eyes, down to the ground from your second-floor window, when it kind of snaps over you and shatters the illusion -

It's _weird_ for Chunt to look so human.

Like, unusual weird, but also, you're slowly realizing, _bad_ weird. Because now that you're thinking about it, that's part of what has been so fascinating; you're so accustomed to seeing him in the most bizarre, least humanoid bodies imaginable - a frog, a shark, a bird, a badger - that him looking the most like a _person_ and the least like an animal you've come upon yet is uncanny valley to the extreme. You'd sooner have the reverse merman back again, or a dog-Chunt that walks unnervingly on his hind legs everywhere, or a Chunt without a body at all. It feels _wrong_. That's not Chunt.

(Also, he's got those weird sideways-pupil goat eyes, which are giving you the heebie-jeebies, even from this distance.)

"I'm so tired," you say, which isn't a lie, really. "And I - I don't want - I don't think an orgy is really my speed." Also not a lie, but also-also, you try to pour the whole weight of what you really mean behind it, which is that maybe there's something that _is_ your speed, which is _not_ an orgy, and is maybe just Chunt - in the right body, in any body that feels _right_ \- and...you.

You snap your fingers, and try _so_ hard, and a big, flopping squash blossom prestidigitizes into your hand, yellow-orange and radiant in the moonlight. It's not exactly romantic, but you're still mostly only good at edible plants. You let it waft down to him, and he tucks it behind one of his nubby little horns. He smiles.

"Goodnight, Taako."

"G'night Chunt." And, regaining your wits: "And _please_ , god, keep it down."

\----

It's the last day of summer, and that party Otok Barleyfoot was planning? It was his own birthday party, and it is _popping off_.

You've never seen so many people in the Vermilion Minotaur before. There are people and creatures here you've never seen before in your _life_. It's actually kind of rad, realizing how many people in this town want to party with Otok, and how beloved of a figure he is in this community that so often seems to like, hate and kill just about everything. You're not exactly lawful good, but you're digging the positive energies. Like, obvi some people are just here for the free food and booze, but still, no one's causing a shitty ruckus or anything. It's been a long, long time since you've been to a party this cool.

After over an hour of wandering, BS-ing small talk with strangers (you know more about D'athaniel Quen'yarvin now than you ever, _ever_ wanted to know), and nursing a single massive glass of chardonnay, you finally manage to score a seat, a coveted spot at the bar no less. Pressed in close on your right is some dude engaged in deep, disturbing conversation with a literal talking sword, and seated on your left is -

"Hey, it's you!" you say, pitching loud to be heard over the party. It's Chunt's friend, that beardy, wizard-robes guy. "I see you around all the time but I don't think we've ever properly met, like for real."

"Oh, bhh, well uhh, allow me to introduce myself!" he blusters. "I am Usidore! Wizard of the Twelfth Realm of Ephysiyies, Master of Light and Shadow, Manipulator of Magical Delights, Devourer of Chaos, Champion of the Great Halls of Terr'akkas! The elves know me as Fi'ang Yalok, the dwarfs know me as Zoenen Hoogstandjes, and I am known in the Northeast as Gaismunēnas Meistar! And perhaps there are other, more secret names that no one in this bar doth yet know."

By the time he's done with all of this, your eyes have gone just the liiiittlest bit cross-eyed, and the bar around you has even quieted down a notch or two in shock. What the _fuck_ , dude. You're an elf, last you checked, but you've literally never heard the name Phallic Yin-Yang, or whatever the hell he just said. Honestly you lost track around the middle there. But after a beat the festivities carry on as if nothing happened, and you shake yourself a little, mentally. And physically, probably. You're tipsy enough.

"Cool, cool," you grant him. "Yeah, I'm lovin' this game. Let me try. I'm...Taako, wizard of the uh, the open road! Master of - sweet and spicy. You know, from TV! The elves know me as...Taako, the dwarves know me as....Taako, and I am known all - all throughout the land, as: Taako!" Yeah, you can't even finish with a straight face. You snort into your drink, trying not to laugh literally onto this guy.

"You're making fun of me," he says, poutily.

"Well, my dude, if I may say so, you did start off a bit strong, there."

"But you are also a wizard, so you say!"

"Uhhh, yeah, you know, I dabble," you allow.

"So surely you understand - surely whatever great congregation of oceans and winds, and eagles, and - and the earth, whatever powerful natural forces brought you into this world, they hath made you into a wizard worthy of many, many names, you must, you know, get where I'm coming from. Unless you are but newly placed upon this plane and have not yet had time to acquire such uhhhhh such extensive titles?"

You give him a hard eyebrow. "Uhh, listen, I don't think I'm drunk enough for everything you're saying to be making such little sense, so I think what it is is you're _actually_ not making any sense. I was - listen, when two sun elves love each other very much, and they've got the right y'knoowww equipment for the whole situation, sometimes what happens is - "

He interrupts you. "Oh! So you were born of, of natural, sexual means. Why then you are more of a sorcerer, one who has - has studied great magical texts, and whatnot, and has acquired your magical capacities in that way, rather than being born into this world of the fire and the rain and the mud and the - "

"Wait - no," you say. " _You're_ a sorcerer. You were born, like, already magic, already able to do magic. I'm a wizard, I had to study. I mean, I'm self-taught, but y'know."

"No, no, that's incorrect. Wizards are born, sorcerers are taught. I'm a wizard."

" _I'm_ a wizard," you insist, oddly defensive of some shit you barely even do anymore. "Why is Foon so fucking _backwards_?"

"How dare you!"

"Mmmgentlemen!" says a voice - says _the_ voice. Your ears and your spine prick up, and you look around, until you spot him - he's crawling up the back of Usidore's chair, somehow all while holding a bowl-like cup that's almost as big as he is. He settles down on the bar between the two of you and motions as if to flag down Otok, though the birthday boy is totally swamped right now and it'll probably take a while. It's Chunt, the mongoose.

"Chunt!" Usidore chimes, the confrontational demeanor of the moment before gone instantly. "So glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't miss it!" Chunt says. "Otok and me go way back."

"Oh, yes, I remember, when you were working here, in the kitchens! Your spiced potatoes, wuhhhh they're spectacular!"

"Yeah, it's my mom's recipe. I still think about opening my own spot, sometimes...."

They go back and forth a few more times, smiling at each other like the best of fucking friends, and it's great. Their banter is so familiar and pleasant and it just feels good to watch, which you're attributing largely to Chunt, and just how good of a fucking dude he is. You're still trying to decide if you actually like Usidore, and it's proving much more difficult than anticipated, though this is a tick in the yes column.

He tips a floppy-sleeved hand to you. "Haaaaave have you met - Taako, was it?"

"Oh! Yeah!" says Chunt, grinning at you now;

"We keep meeting," the two of you say in unison. You wink, mostly to beat him to it. He's only a split-second behind you, though. You smile, your teeth catching coyly on your lower lip, and down the last couple swigs of your wine.

"Wonderful!" says Usidore. He looks back and forth at the two of you a couple of times, eyes rolling in his head a bit. He's probably drunker than you are. "Oh. _Oh._ " A wide grin crests beneath his beard. "Uhhhhh well I shall leave you to it!"

"Oh, no, Usey, stay!" says Chunt. "Rainbow bowls all around, we'll chat, we'll party!"

"No, no, I can see where I'm uhhhh a third wheel in a situation - "

"Come on, big wizard," you say, "show us some magic why don'tcha?"

"Disapparate!!" Usidore booms, and suddenly the stool he's sitting on is surrounded by a huge, noxious cloud of what smells like pipe smoke. When your coughing fit subsides and the smoke clears, he's gone, but a quick look around and you spot him, a few feet away, already chatting to a dark-skinned guy in a mauve three-piece suit.

"He just - "

"He just walked away, yeah," Chunt agrees. "Welp, whatever." He slinks down into the stool in Usidore's absence. "You still want a rainbow bowl?"

"Yeah, I don't know what that is."

You each get one. They are - weirdly good? It's four or five colors of very delicately layered, _very_ strong different alcohols, the presentation is really impressive, and it's warm and thick like soup to the point where you almost, _almost_ want a spoon to drink it. It's definitely way stronger than your wine was, and you definitely are gonna want another one after this one is gone, because like, _yum._ Why haven't you been drinking these the whole time?

"Cheers," says Chunt, hoisting his toward you with both of his little paws.

"Cheers!" you agree, knocking yours against his. "To, uh, to Otok! Man of the hour!"

"To Otok!"

"Hey, thanks, guys," says the bartender, bustling out of the kitchen with a few more plates of food.

\----

"So he said _I_ was a sorcerer and _he_ was a wizard, and I was like, _no_ my dog that's not how it _works_ \- "

"So wait, Faerûn does it backwards?"

" _Foon_ does it backwards! You are all animals, I swear."

"Mmm, usually!"

"Oh stop, stop it," you laugh. "You know what I meant."

"You can still do magic, right? That's all that matters!"

"I mean, I'm not very good at it, anymore. I kind of - fell out of practice." You give a shrug, playing casual. You hope it works.

"You made that flower for me!"

"Oh. Uh, yeah." You're surprised that stuck with him.

"C'mon, do a cool spell! I believe in you!"

You screw your eyes shut; you're a little drunk. But his smile is so _earnest_ , so stupid and heartwarming, that you find yourself unable to deny him. You hold out the palm of your hand between the two of you, and when you open your eyes, some ice cubes have landed in it, floated out of someone else's drink nearby. You shrug again.

"Shape water, I guess?"

"That was awesome! How many ice cubes can we steal!"

You laugh. "Uh, a bunch? I dunno, man. It's just a cantrip."

Chunt raises his rainbow bowl to you again. "To cantrips!"

"To - cantrips!"

\----

"So how'd you end up in Hogsface, anyway?" he asks. "Or like, in Foon, period? What brings a handsome wizard like you all the way from Faerûn?"

 _Woof._ "Well, I uh," you start. "I needed a change of pace."

"So you go to a whole fuckin different continent? Yeah, okay. C'monnn." He pushes at your thigh with his little mongoose hand. He's kinda drunk, huh.

Fuck it, so are you. "Okay, like, to tell you the truth," you say. "Like to be perfectly honest. I uh. Well I fucked up pretty bad, Chunt. Yeah, and I uh, I think because I fucked up so bad, I actually like, killed a lot of people." You can't look at him. You look into the bottom of your rainbow bowl, which is mostly just a violet bowl at this point.

"Oh," says Chunt. "Well that's not that bad."

"...Beg your _pardon_?"

"Sure," he says, shrugging. "Like, yeah, people kill people all the time, it's not a big deal?" He tips the last of his bowl into his little mongoose mouth. "I just figure we all kill a few people here and there. The way I see it is, I kill a couple of people and then, y'know, someday, I am one of someone else's couple of people that they killed. The lions, here in Foon, they call it the Circle of Death. Happens every day."

That's - so fucked up, and also honestly the most refreshing and reassuring and _Foonish_ take any single person has had on the whole Glamour Springs business this entire time. You have noticed that people seem to die a _lot_ here, so maybe this is almost like, a healthier attitude to have toward it, that they've developed. You can kind of get down on that - hey, you can get down on _anything_ that makes you feel less guilty.

"To killing people?" you offer.

"To killing people!" he shouts, raising his empty rainbow bowl to the ceiling.

"To killing people!!!" agree at least three other partygoers in your immediate vicinity.

\----

"You know," you find yourself telling him, another rainbow bowl-and-a-half later, "I always thought that if I was an animal, I would be a mongoose." You let the grin stretch lazily across your face as you look down at him, but it's not even a come-on (or well, okay, it's not _just_ a come-on), it's true. Which is wild, because like, have you e̶̻͗v̷̡͈̈́̆e̴̲̝̽ŗ̵̋͘ ̷̗͑ȅ̷̥̚v̸̖̿e̶̬̋̓n̸̦̒̄ š̷̢̘̌̾̓̃̓ȩ̵͇̮̓̽͜͝e̷̢̺̻̜͋̈́̏̚n̷̘͕̮̮̯̹̤̿̄͒̄̎ ̸̫̦̓̇̍͛͘͝ą̴̹͇̩̹̻̍ ̴̳̫̰̙͉͇͠m̷̰͚̥͚͗͑o̴̦̞̲̬̦̖̊̂̓̑̀͠n̴͉̗̉̊̐g̵̰̳͚̮̼̦͕͐̉̆̀̈́͠ơ̸̤̏̉͗ơ̶̦̻͇̰̟͕̔͆͆͑͝s̷̙̘̅ͅę̶͇̰̠̙̘̦͋͌̄̀̓͐͠ ̵̖̀̾̊̽̎͘i̶̭̠̖̐̍̇̀̈́̄͗n̸̖̬̎̾̊̋ ̵͎͆̒r̵̗̗̒͗̂̔͝ȩ̶̤͕̼͕̲̑å̸̡̱̗̑̕l̶̛̟͓̃̏̆͋̅͘ ̴̫͓̯̭̞͉̽̾̊l̴̳͍̆͊̐̓̈́͠î̸͚͈̩̥̙͍̑̀͌̋f̴̪̉̈́̕̚ͅę̵͔̯̬̇̃̃͒̅̈́̏͜?̴̧̯͈͛̋͝ Have you ever even seen a mongoose in real life? But as soon as you say it, it feels right.

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah, you know, it's like my soul animal or whatever."

"Like a patronus?" he asks. "--Do they have patronuses in Faerûn?"

"Kind of more like a dæmon?"

"A demon??"

"No, like with an ash, the, the diphthong? Sorry," you grin, "it's my Ffffaerûn accent. A dee-aae-emon?"

"Oh, oh yeah, a dæmon! Mmm, nice pull, man!" He gives it all of one fucking beat, and then: "You know, I wouldn't mind seeing your ash in a diphthong!"

"Shut the _fuck_ up," you're already saying before he's even finished.

He lifts his bowl, sheepish but shameless. "To shutting the fuck up!"

\----

"No, no, no, you know what I just realized!"

"Amaze me," you say.

"O, tock," he says, "Otok. And - Tock, o, Taako!" He laughs, way too satisfied with himself. "Like, right? O-tok, Taak-o!"

"Wow, okay - "

"Is it an elf thing? Like a naming thing? That's amazing! Like what are the odds! It's like if tomorrow, another stupid old wizard came in here, and his name was like, Dorry-ooze."

"I am not drinking to Dorry-ooze."

"You guys," says Otok, wearily. "Go _home_."

He's at the bar right next to you, and at his words, an odd silence settles over the three of you. Your eyes drift from Chunt, to Otok, to the rest of the bar, and holy shit, the place is _empty_. You and Chunt are two of maybe eight people still loitering around, Spants and Glen Miller engaged in a soft, low-energy argument over by the stage, some of the unwed mothers crying in a huddle together in the back corner. Even Usidore is gone. Somehow, the whole party has evaporated and gone to bed, and you never even noticed.

"Hey, I live here," you snipe weakly at Otok, grinning tipsily.

Chunt says, "There's always my place."

He says it just like that. There's no goof, no vocal equivalent of waggling eyebrows, no puttin' on the moves, no strings attached. He's not trying to _seduce_ you. He's just a dude you've been talking to all night - so enraptured in the conversation that you missed a whole party dying around you, so engaged that you didn't even feel like you were missing it, not really - asking you to come home with him, but giving you the total, respectful-as-hell prerogative to say no.

And yeah, this dude happens to be a mongoose. But he's a mongoose with charisma, with that quickness in his eyes and that easiness to the roll of his shoulders that you've come to associate with the dude _inside_ the mongoose, or the skeleton, or the toad, or whatever the fuck he is. _That's_ who Chunt is. And in this moment, you realize, you are finally, finally at the point where the rest of it doesn't matter anymore. He's heard your bullshit and accepted you for who you are, and this nonsense has gone on long enough, and you owe him the same. After all the lines this great, lively, generous, accepting, charismatic dude has thrown out at you, you are lonely enough, and smitten enough, and _curious_ enough, to say fuck it, and bite.

"Yeah, I'm down."

His smile is brighter than the moon outside. "Really? Okay! Okay. Wow. Oh my gosh, I didn't realize you'd be so into the mongoose thing."

You roll your eyes. "You know that's not it."

He shakes his head, knowingly, still smiling. "That's not it."

So the two of you bid the Vermilion Minotaur goodnight, much to Otok's relief, and head out into the forest, following along the road to Chunt's hovel, shaking off some of the inebriation as you breathe in the bright, cloying end-of-summer air. You walk slowly so as not to overtake his short-paced scurrying, but the journey isn't far. Soon enough, you've reached the place: a gargantuan tree-stump sits half-uprooted from the ground, with a sort of rounded hillock connected to it, and a small door set into its gnarled roots. A largely subterranean home that protrudes just a little from the forest floor, just enough to be visible from aboveground. It's not off-putting or anything, but it is for sure a hovel.

"It might be a little low for you," he admits as he leads you to the door. "I feel like a majority of the time I'm in shapes that are less than five feet tall? So it's more designed for that. But once we're sitting down it should be okay."

"No sweat," you say. You take off your hat, for a little extra clearance. And, y'know, to be polite.

"And, uh, look," he says, stopping before you actually go inside. "I don't know where your head is really at with the whole thing, and I guess we won't really be able to tell until it's over, but I really hope you'll stay over till breakfast." He smiles earnestly up at you. "I would _love_ to cook for you."

You hold eye contact with him for about four seconds before you burst out laughing.

You feel bad, because you _know_ he doesn't really know why, there's no way he could; and you're still a little drunk, and the laughter takes a sharp veer into the hysterical, borderline-turning-into-weeping kind before you're able to rein it back into regular cackling. _This guy_? Cooking for _you_? You're practically doubled over, heaving for breath, clutching your hat to your chest before you're able to pull yourself back together again.

"I am so sorry," you say, sincerely. "Let's forget that just happened. C'mon, Mr. Shapeshifter, lead the way."

\----

Surprise number five, or six, or whichever one you're on now: You have sex with Chunt.

You know what, you're not surprised. Not by now. You're not surprised that he barely even gives you a tour of the place when you duck into the hovel, steering the two of you straight for the bedroom because you're not making any pretenses anymore. (You do shoot a lingering glance to the tapestry on the walls depicting all the shapes he has taken, because it's dozens or maybe even hundreds and you _do_ kind of want to take a deeper look at that when getting laid is not the matter at immediate hand.) You're not surprised that his bed is unmade but clean, and so, so much bigger than the rest of his furniture, accommodating for guests of most sizes, anyone who could feasibly fit through the front door and then some. It's soft, when you sit down on it, to unlace your boots and roll down your breeches, to tip your hat onto the bedpost and tug your hair loose from its small ponytail. Better than yours at the Minotaur. You lie in Chunt's bed in your tunic, socks and underwear, settling in, about half-hard, anticipatory. Chunt, of course, doesn't have to undress.

You're not at all surprised that yeah, the whole - _zoophilia_ aspect or whatever is still kind of tripping your squick reflex a little bit, even if he isn't _really_ an animal, even if it's totally consensual. But you compartmentalize, because that's not the point anymore. Chunt is the point. You're half underground but soft moonlight spills in from a high window along the eastern wall, and Chunt crawls alongside you, softly, gently. He can tell it's weird for you, you figure, and is trying to make it less weird. He's careful, and generous, and kind, and just super chill about the whole thing. That's not surprising at all.

You're also not surprised when it turns out to be pretty hot, because yeah, that tracks. Your brain flashes back to that first night when you answered the Smeg's List ad, and you were confronted with the realization that any guy who can hook up with basically any animal while in the shape of basically any other animal would have to have astronomical game. Charisma plus four. He lets it all out as he unfastens your shirt, nudging it open and sliding his soft fur against your bare chest. And yeah, it's awkward, but not any more awkward than like, having sex with _anybody_ usually is. And it's also _sexy_ , and you've really come to accept - and almost appreciate - that where Chunt is concerned, awkward and sexy will probably always go hand in hand. Hand in paw. Whatever.

He gazes soft but intent up at you, his back to your chest now, his beady eyes deadly serious, and says with one hundred percent sincerity, "I'm sorry I only have one butthole."

Okay, that one is a surprise.

You snort out laughing before you can stop yourself. "Wow, yeah, that's uh, unfortunately for both of us that is sort of a dealbreaker." You shake your head, scratching your nails down his back, starting right between his little triangle ears and working all the way down his spine. He can't super like, kiss in this shape, he's too snouty, but you feel like this is a good stand-in. "Are you fucking serious? I promise you I was not expecting any more than just the one."

"Really?"

"Yeah, _really_. Come on."

In the end, he sort of straddles your junk like he's literally riding it, and lines his junk up against it, and you get off that way, rocking and touching and giggling through the whole thing. His giggling is actually a mongoose sex thing, he tells you. Yours is just because it rules. It's weird, and hot, and hilarious, and amazing. You're kind of kicking yourself for dragging it out so long. He's so soft, so attentive, you totally understand how he gets so many random bedpartners so frequently. Not to mention your dick looks huge next to him which is a hell of an ego booster. He finishes first, but you're right behind him. He quickly scampers off for a damp cloth to clean you both up. You fall asleep, in Chunt's giant bed, with the mongoose curled up along your chest. Still wearing your socks.

You're a little bit surprised at how sweet and familiar it feels, to not be so fucking lonely, for once.

\----

You're alone in the bed when you wake up, but you hear Chunt puttering around in the kitchen. Oh, shit, you really did mean to try to leave before he made too much of an effort on breakfast. Foonish cuisine, as far as you've been able to tell, is _disgusting_. You hope he doesn't try to feed you any more of those raw, spice-encrusted powdery potatoes. Good god.

You let out a giggle. Yeah, _that's_ the morning-after issue you're worried about. Not the fact that you definitely lowkey fucked a mongoose. "You've been in Foon way, way too long, my man," you murmur to yourself. This stuff is really getting to your head. You gotta get up and - find your underwear, at least. It can't have gone far.

Slowly, you redress, managing to only bonk your head once on the low-slung ceiling, though even the one time is murder on your minor-league hangover. Oh, god, the alcohol, the party, the tavern! You try to imagine your walk of shame back to the Vermilion Minotaur and giggle a little more. Welp! Not like there'll be any pretending this didn't happen! _Everyone_ is going to know, because -

"You're awake!" calls Chunt, and you hear his footsteps approaching, and then through the bedroom door out of the short hall comes Chunt, and he has - shifted. He's carrying a little tray of gross-looking breakfast items and for all intents and purposes you are looking at _you_ , only with Chunt's voice coming out of your mouth, and with his innate Chunt spirit still inside. Your identical body, but with that same foreign devil-may-care quickness behind the eyes, the open and easy posture to his body and his smile.

Your brain

w̴͓̐̔h̸̥̤́i̵̺̟̅t̸̩̃ȩ̶̋͑ŝ̴͓́

o̶͚̲̓̈́͊̔́ͅu̵͕̓̒̍ṫ̵̜̮̚.̶͇̰͈̂͛̍̑́ ̷͖͂̈́̆ .

Y̴̯̌̍õ̸̗̱̳̗͊͝ų̴̛͂͌r̶̨̢̽͠ ̷̢̝̖̰̠͒͑͂͌͠b̸̟̙̖̱̈́̍̏͘r̴̨͍̒͊̈́a̸̧͈̫͋͌̕i̵̱̓̓̌n̴͖̈́̽̒̋ ̴̡͎̦͕͙̽̑̓̽w̴͓̐̔h̸̥̤́i̵̺̟̅tes out. Can't even look at him. Not enough air in the room, not enough oxygen pumping from your lungs to your heart to your head. You pitch dizzily to the side. Catch yourself on the edge of the bed. Fumble for your hat. You gotta get out of here.

"Taako? Are you okay?" says Chunt. You barely hear him; he is a hundred incomprehensible years away. You try to look at him again, can't. Static. Your eyes cross and something inside of you comes unspooled. Forty-five psychic damage. More than you can handle. You vomit on his floor.

"Taako!" he's crying out now, but you're stumbling back to your feet, have to _leave_. You push past him and hear the sounds of the breakfast tray clattering to the floor as if from the bottom of a well. He's reaching out for you but you can't even turn. Your body, his spirit. Your face, his fire. Something about it is _wrongwrongw̷̠͝r̶̫̎ǫ̴̽́ṋ̸̊͑g̴͔͓̅_ and you can't bring yourself to stick around to figure out what. Distantly, your heart aches for him. You really like Chunt. You _hate this_.

"I can't," you gasp pathetically - "I'm so - sorry - You're not - " He's not. H̴͔̥̯͖͒̍e̶̙͂͗̿'̶̨͔̙̟͉̔s̴̝̣̰̱̘͐̓̓ n̷̞̥̝̬͙̺̪͛͘o̸̠̰͝t̵͕̫͈͋̊̊̓͛͆͘̚͝.̸̨͚͈̣̭͙̞͐̽̒̐̈̽̓͝͠ . _Who?_

"Taako, it's Vwishtash!" he yells after you as you stumble out the door. You don't know what that means, but you find out soon enough: The sky above you is thick with blood-orange smoke, and half the trees around you are at least a little bit on fire. Flames are raining down from the heavens as you book it through the forest and back to the Vermilion Minotaur, and your last coherent thought, as you flee for your sanity, run for your life, you've got to _go_ , you probably have to pack your bag and leave Foon altogether and head back to Faerûn because your brain is _boiling in your head_

is fuck, you could really use an umbrella.

**Author's Note:**

> will I ever write a TAZ fic without a sharp, angsty reveal ending? stay tuned.
> 
> if you enjoyed this fic, please consider [reblogging it on tumblr](http://threepwillow.tumblr.com/post/174352675528/fic-body-4-body-tazhftmt-crossover)!


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